Page 27 of The Worst Kind of Promise
“I didn’t see your head move.”
“It was a subtle nod.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes stay narrowed on me, observing. Agh. I can feel him crawling underneath my skin.
Faye finally starts eating, nibbling daintily on her salad. “It’ll be great.”
Her voice is laced with a certainty that should chill me the fuck out, but her words from earlier stick in my mind, dredging up that protectiveness. Nobody told me that…infatuation…would feel like light flutters in your stomach or a bad case of indigestion. It makes me want to shield her from all the bad things in the world and take the brunt of the pain for her. I’d do it, you know. I’d go through the worst human experience in existence to make sure she’s okay, to see her eyes shine the way they usually do. And that’s when it hits me: Faye Hollings isn’t someone who drifts through your life. She’s someone who lingers, stays, and remains in your heart. And I think she’s carved her goddamn name on me.
* * *
After the dishesare washed and the guys are in their respective rooms, I head upstairs to check on Faye. My back’s currently mad at me for the less-than-stellar sleeping situation, but a few stretches and I should be as right as rain. I’ve had to sleep on the couch plenty of times when my room was occupied by strangers. Strangers I didn’t even bring into the house.
I gently knock on the door, but when I don’t hear anything, I open it to find my bed missing a tiny person. The sheets are thrown back like there’s been a wild animal piling them together for a comfortable nest, and some of Faye’s things have taken residence on the floor.
I’m about to call her name when she appears in the bathroom doorway, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, wearing nothing but a tank top and underwear. Wait a second…underwear?
I know the respectful thing to do is look away or cover my eyes, but I can’t. I can’t move. She’s hexed me, broken my legs on a voodoo doll version of me. I’m immobilized.
“Kit!” She flings her toothbrush to the carpet, her hands immediately covering her lace front. Her shirt—I’ve discovered a theme—is alarmingly short, barely concealing the stiff peaks of her nipples, and ending just above her navel. Which leaves the most delectable sliver of stomach on display, begging me to kiss, taste, lick.
The lace of her panties is a bright fuchsia, riding high on her hips, no doubt revealing the most perfect backside. Perky and small, like a Georgia peach. I can only imagine the way it’ll bounce when she rides me, how red her cheeks will be when I spank her and mark her as mine. My spit-drenched cock sliding in her asshole as I pull her hair, subdue her, fuck her like the good girl I know she is.
She slides on a pair of sweatpants, but I’m not sure if it’s for her sake or mine. Although her thong’s hidden, my fantasies don’t end there. No, Faye could be dressed in a trash bag, and I’d still find a way to rip it off her.
She leans down to pick up her toothbrush, her messy bun flopping around. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve put pants on. I forgot I wasn’t living by myself.”
Why is she apologizing? She never has to apologize for turning me on.
“Don’t apologize,” I say hoarsely, walking myself over to the other side of the bed, mainly because my traitorous dick is pitching a four-person tent in my pants.
She minces into the bathroom to spit, the sound of rushing water proposing that a cold shower might benefit me.
“Don’t worry, I promise to be fully clothed from here on out.”
I wish I could tell her how much Ihatethat idea. I adjust the bulge in my pants before she comes back into view. Her first night staying here, and my self-control is off the map and crash-diving somewhere in the Maldives. Two months. I’ll never last.
She wipes up the spilled toothpaste on the floor. “Thank you again. For letting me have the bed.”
I’m hot. It’s hot in here. The last time I remember being this hot was when I had a hundred-degree fever. Am I sweating? “No problem. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” The excess of saliva in my mouth makes my words sound mushy.
She sits down on the mattress, patting the spot next to her. Since she’s half-turned away from me, I can’t tell if she’s on the verge of tears or not. Is this another serious conversation? I can’t do serious right now. Not with…what’s happening downstairs.
I stand still.
She pats again.
I don’t move.
She looks at me, then looks at the bed, as if I’m a dog who needs to be shown what to do.
I should say something. I mean, she turned me on in the hotel room, but then again, we were both turned on. If I say something now, I’ll look like a total creep—which I am. She doesn’t want anything sexual.
“Kit.” Her voice goes low, a siren song meant only for me, luring me to her. It’s not supposed to be sexy, but it is. And I can’t resist her.
Her hand whacks the mattress rather aggravatedly. “Come here.”
Nothing’s more embarrassing than admitting you have a boner for your friend’s sister, right? Wrong. So wrong. Because the next set of words out of my mouth is…
